Mr. Claro -- Modern Nonfiction Reading Selection by Cynthia Ozick the First Day of School: Washington Square, 1946 RAISED IN
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Untitled Document Mr. Claro -- Modern Nonfiction Reading Selection by Cynthia Ozick The First Day of School: Washington Square, 1946 RAISED IN THE BRONX, Cynthia Ozick (b. 1928) took her B.A. at New York University, went out to Ohio State University/or her M.A., married a lawyer, bore a daughter, and returned to live in New Rochelle. She is a novelist and short-story writer, with a strong second calling in the essay. Her first novel was Trust in 1966. More recently she published a book of short stories, Levitation (1982); an essay collection, Art and Ardor (1983); and in the same year another novel, The Cannibal Galaxy. Also in 1983 she was presented with one of the Harold and Mildred Strauss Living Awards, thirty-five thousand dollars a year for five years in support of her work. In 1987 she published The Messiah of Stockholm, only four years after her previous novel, which had come sixteen years after her first. "The First Day of School" appeared in Harper's in 1989 when she also published Metaphor and Memory, a collection of essays. In the same year she published The Shawl, a novella and a short story about the Holocaust. In an interview in Publishers Weekly, Ozick discloses unusual habits. Most writers as they get older tend to write early in the morning, when they feel their energy highest. Cynthia Ozick writes late at night. She finishes when dawn arrives with "the racket of those damn birds. The depth of the night is guilt free, responsibility free; nobody will telephone you, importune you, make any claims on you. You own the world." She also acknowledges that "my first draft is the last." But she defines "first draft" so that we understand her: A first draft can be the product of much scratching around. "I must perfect each sentence madly before I go on to the next," she says, because "at the end I want to be finished." This portion of New York appears to many persons the most delectable. It has a kind of established repose which is not of frequent occurrence in other quarters of the long, shrill city; it has a riper, richer, more honorable look than any of the upper ramifications of the great longitudinal thoroughfare - the look of having had something of a social history. - HENRY JAMES, Washington Square I first came down to Washington Square on a colorless February morning in 1946. I was seventeen and a half years old and was carrying my lunch in a brown paper bag, just as I had carried it to high school file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/Joe%20Claro/D...OOL/gr%2012%2003-04/Nonfic%20pieces/Ozick/Ozick.htm (1 of 7)11/18/2005 8:11:07 PM Untitled Document only a month before. It was - I thought it was - the opening day of spring term at Washington Square College, my initiation into my freshman year at New York University All I knew of NYU then was that my science-minded brother had gone there; he had written from the army that I ought to go there too. With master-of-ceremonies zest he described the Browsing Room on the second floor of the Main Building as a paradisal chamber whose bookish loungers leafed languidly through magazines and exchanged high-principled witticisms between classes. It had the sound of a carpeted Olympian club in Oliver Wendell Holmes's Boston, Hub of the Universe, strewn with leather chairs and delectable old copies of The Yellow Book. On that day I had never heard of Oliver Wendell Holmes or The Yellow Book, and Washington Square was a faraway bower where wounded birds fell out of trees. My brother had once brought home from Washington Square Park a baby sparrow with a broken leg, to be nurtured back to flight. It died instead, emitting in its last hours melancholy faint cheeps, and leaving behind a dense recognition of the minute explicitness of morality All the same, in the February grayness Washington Square had the allure of the celestial unknown. A sparrow might die, but my own life was luminously new: I felt my youth like a nimbus. Which dissolves into the dun gauze of a low and sullen city sky And here I am flying out of the Lexington Avenue subway at Astor Place, just a few yards from Wanamaker's, here I am turning a corner past a secondhand bookstore and a union hall; already late, I begin walking very fast toward the park. The air is smoky with New York winter grit, and on clogged Broadway a mob of trucks shifts squawking gears. But there, just ahead, crisscrossed by paths under high branches, is Washington Square; and on a single sidewalk, three clear omens - or call them riddles, intricate and redolent. These I will disclose in a moment, but before that you must push open the heavy brass-and-glass doors of the Main Building and come with me, at a hard and panting pace, into the lobby of Washington Square College on the earliest morning of my freshman year. On the left, a bank of elevators. Straight ahead, a long burnished corridor, spooky as a lit tunnel. And empty, all empty I can hear my solitary footsteps reverberate, as in a radio mystery drama: They lead me up a short staircase into a big dark ghost-town cafeteria. My brother's letter, along with his account of the physics and chemistry laboratories (I will never see them), has already explained that this place is called Commons - and here my heart will learn to shake with the merciless newness of life. But not today; today there is nothing. Tables and chairs squat in dead silhouette. I race back through a silent maze of halls and stairways to the brass-and-glass doors -there stands a lonely guard. From the pocket of my coat I retrieve a scrap with a classroom number on it and ask the way The guard announces in a sly croak that the first day of school is not yet; come back tomorrow, he says. A dumb bad joke: I'm humiliated. I've journeyed the whole way down from the end of the line - Pelham Bay, in the northeast Bronx - to find myself in desolation, all because of a muddle: Tuesday isn't file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/Joe%20Claro/D...OOL/gr%2012%2003-04/Nonfic%20pieces/Ozick/Ozick.htm (2 of 7)11/18/2005 8:11:07 PM Untitled Document Wednesday The nimbus of expectation fades. The lunch bag in my fist takes on a greasy sadness. I'm not ready to dive back into the subway - I'll have a look around. Across the street from the Main Building, the three omens. First, a pretzel man with a cart. He's wearing a sweater, a cap that keeps him faceless -he's nothing but the shadows of his creases - and wool gloves with the fingertips cut off. He never moves; he might as well be made of papiermach6, set up and left out in the open since spring. There are now almost no pretzels for sale, and this gives me a chance to inspect the construction of his bare pretzel-poles. The pretzels are hooked over a column of gray cardboard cylinders, themselves looped around a stick, the way horseshoes drop around a post. The cardboard cylinders are the insides of toilet paper rolls. The pretzel man is rooted between a Chock Full 0' Nuts (that's the second omen) and a newsstand (that's the third). The Chock Full: The doors are like fans, whirling remnants of conversation. She will marry him. She will not marry him. Fragrance of coffee and hot chocolate. We can prove that the sens~es are partial and unreliable vehicles of information, but who is to say that reason is not equally a product of human limitation? Powdered doughnut sugar on their lips. Attached to a candy store, the newsstand. Copies of Partisan Review: the table of the gods. Jean Stafford, Mary McCarthy, Elizabeth Hardwick, Irving Howe, Delmore Schwartz, Alfred Kazin, Clement Greenberg, Stephen Spender, William Phillips, John Berryman, Saul Bellow, Philip Rahv, Richard Chase, Randall Jarrell, Simone de Beauvoir, Karl Shapiro, George Orwell! I don't know a single one of these names, but I feel their small conflagration flaming in the gray street: the succulent hotness of their promise. I mean to penetrate every one of them. Since all the money I have is my subway fare - a nickel - I don't buy a copy (the price of Partisan in 1946 is fifty cents); I pass on. I pass on to the row of houses on the north side of the square. Henry 10 James was born in one of these, but I don't know that either. Still, they are plainly old, though no longer aristocratic: haughty last-century shabbies with shut eyelids, built of rosy-ripe respectable brick, down on their luck. Across the park bulks Judson Church, with its squat squarish bell tower; by the end of the week I will be languishing at the margins of a basketball game in its basement, forlorn in my blue left-over-from-high-school gym suit and mooning over Emily Dickinson: There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons -That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes - There is more I don't know. I don't know that W. H. Auden lives just down there, and might at any moment be seen striding toward home under his tall rumpled hunch; I don't know that Marianne Moore is only up the block, her doffed tricorn resting on her bedroom dresser.